


Euphues

by DrJackstraw



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman: The War of Jokes and Riddles - Fandom
Genre: Edward Nygma being a controlling bastard too, Edward Nygma being a manipulative bastard, Exhibitionism, F/M, Power Imbalance, Self-Harm, That's where you get to fuck gang leaders? WattPad?, This is my WattPad-inspired self-indulgent garbage fire, You go from serving Karens to serving the Prince of Puzzles; It's a step up if you ask me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:48:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27500278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrJackstraw/pseuds/DrJackstraw
Summary: "𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐮𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲 𝐝𝐨 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐫."- John Lyly, '𝐄𝐮𝐩𝐡𝐮𝐞𝐬: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐖𝐢𝐭' (1578)When the tragedy of the War of Jokes and Riddles takes center stage at your place of employment, the Riddler offers you a part to play.
Relationships: Edward Nygma/Reader, Edward Nygma/You, The Riddler/Reader, The Riddler/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	1. ACT I

Gotham at night is a stage that amplifies every voice the light of day drowns out. Once the war came to your dinner theater and the screams were close enough to pierce your ears, the sound of savagery had already become white noise.

But you weren't deaf yet. So, when the cook used a phone the Riddler’s men failed to confiscate to let the authorities know about the only entrance that hadn’t been shut and secured by a bomb, you heard everything.

“He asked for you.”

"Please don't tell me he wanted his steak well done instead of medium-rare." He was already sweating, a pig on his way to a Christmas feast. “You said medium-rare, right? Or was that for the crazy plant lady? Didn’t she want it rare?”

"It was perfect." You offer him your customer service smile. “He wants to compliment the chef himself.”

Two steps behind him, you tossed one more look at the cutlery behind you before swinging the doors open. The dining area was quiet but for the muffled sob of a hostage. She’d been your patron for just a couple of hours before turning into a hostage. She had been loud as both. Walking past her table, you smiled. The habit forced you to. The next sob, she couldn't quite supress.

“Good evening.” The Scarecrow swung around in his chair and spooked him. “You must be the man we keep hearing about,” a smirk stretched against the stitches of his mask.

“I hope the food w-was to your liking.”

Poison Ivy didn’t need to turn. She was perfectly panic-inducing just sitting across the table from the two of you. “Is that him?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The Riddler got the last word in. It was something that you’d come to expect from him. “What’s that you’re holding behind your back, my dear?”

You had his attention since you’ve offered him a menu with shaking hands, a steady voice, and a secret note. Even when you’ve brought him a betrayer on a silver platter, he only had eyes for you. 

“It’s a knife, sir,” you answered him with a flash of the blade.

He remained resting back in his chair while others around him swiveled. The men stationed by his side had to be ordered to stand at ease. He had an order for you as well, but he delivered it with a playful pitch in his voice. It was all a game to him. “Proceed.” 

That evening, weak whimpers and pathetic pleas were nothing more than an extra exiting the scene. You've learned to let it fall on deaf ears during dinner. You knew that when you escorted one behind the curtain, when you grazed the chef's gullet with his cooking knife that you'd become part of the act. You knew that once you got him to spill his guts, you had to paint the white table cloth red. So you did.

“The pigs are in the vents then?” The Scarecrow looked away from the one bleeding out at your feet and onto the ceiling. 

“Let’s roast them.” Poison Ivy stretched her arm towards the nearest potted plant. 

“No,” you snapped out of whatever spell you put yourself under. It all had to be part of the act. You didn't just kill that man. You were just playing a part. “We had a deal. You said you'd spare us if I gave you the rat. Here he is. Now, let us go.”

“We owe you nothing-”

“Dr. Isley, please,” The Riddler took one last swing of his drink and took his sweet time enjoying the taste. “I am a man of my word.” He took one last look at your tag and took his sweet time enjoying the taste of your name on his tongue. "And I give you my word."

You couldn’t even breathe, so talking was less of a priority. He always got the last word in.

“Dr. Crane, it’s getting stuffy in here. Do you mind taking a look at those vents?”

“It would be my pleasure,” he snuck away as a symphony of crackling and hissing Fear Gas canisters.

“Dr. Isley, please escort the patrons to the roof. It’s such a lovely night.”

“On it,” she snapped her fingers, and a vine wrapped around the whimpering woman first. When everyone around her was snatched and suspended in the air, she turned into a screaming banshee. 

You might've gone deaf then.

“Men,” he sat up and straightened his suit jacket. He didn’t bother to button it or his shirt. It had been distracting you throughout the entire dinner and he knew it. “See that she makes it to the car in one piece. Our friends over at GCPD are now her enemies.”

You raised your voice and the knife along with it. “Not one step closer.”

The men stood on either side of you, not even attempting a take one. They needn't even try. They were armed with ranged weapons after all. The Riddler did take a step closer. Then he took another

“What do you think you’re doing?” He pricked his finger on the knife’s point. “This is a gunfight, my dear.” He rubbed the pierced forefingers against his thumb. “You’ve already lost.”

“You said that you’d let us go.”

“No,” he shook his head as if trying his best to shake off his smirk. “I didn’t. I said I’d let the _patrons_ go. And even if I were to let them and the _staff_ go, you don’t want to be here after we’ve left.” When his mouth was in a straight line again, his lips at their fullest, he wrapped his hand around your wrist. “What’s this lovely establishment called again?” The pressure he applied was punishing and it promised much more.

“Wild Card,” you gasped. His grip on you got your hand to loosen and lose your grip on the handle. 

Between the SWAT team fighting their fears in the vents and the people being escorted by plants, it's the dull sound of the last barrier between the two of you hitting the floor that's the most deafening. As if sensing one of your senses is compromised, he pulls you closer, chest to bare chest, lips to red ear shell. His voice was soft and his hold on you was just as hard.

“Good. And who do we know of has an identity themed around a playing card?"

“The Joker.”

“Very good.” He combed his free hand through your hair, tucking the tassels behind your ear. “We’re on the news right now and he’s bound to hear all about how I’ve stepped on his turf. He’s not going to like it. He’s likely on his way to trigger one of the bombs I’ve riddled this building with.” 

“The vents. There sre no bombs in the vents. You didn’t forget about them, did you?”

“Clever girl,” he moved his mouth closer, brushing his bottom lip against your blush. “They were meant for him, but someone had to go ahead and spoil the surprise. Now that someone is dead and you got blood all over your hands. A roof full of witnesses, too.”

“You ordered me to kill him.”

“No,” he spoke as he stroked your weakening wrist. “I didn’t.”

“You _made_ me kill him.”

“That was all you. It was you who wrote to me about your colleague trying to save all of you. It was you who turned him in to the man who you needed saving from.”

You knew that once you got him to spill his guts, you had to get your hands dirty. So you caught yourself red-handed. 

“And it was you who slit his throat.” The volume of his voice turned up as yours was muted. “You murdered a man in cold blood for me and can’t even look me in the eye.” The Riddler searched your eyes for an answer, but mustn’t have found one. You wouldn’t give it to him. “Curious little thing.” He forced you to face him, a hand holding you still by the chin as you struggled to move to the side. “Who are you?” 

“She’s afraid,” someone snuck up on you. From the chill that just crept up your spine, you knew it had to be The Scarecrow. “She was shaking the entire time. Except for that one time she had to kill a rat. She was perfectly still then.” 

“She reeks,” someone else’s voice joined the first one. It had to be Poison Ivy's. “I could smell her pheromones from all the way outside.”

“Are the hostages secure, Dr. Isley?”

“Nice and snug in their little buds. They’ll only bloom once those pigs and the Bat are half a city behind us.” 

While you escaped his eyes, you were still his prisoner. And while the two fingers on your chin weren’t forceful, you were still stuck. You were part of the act now, so you followed his directions.

"I want you both on the roof," he demanded of the doctors. "Men?"

“Sir?”

He addressed them, but his attention was on you. There was a pause, however. A pause in which he pushed his thumb between your lips and pulled on the bottom one. There was nothing there to see but for the two rows of clenched teeth covering a single whimper. “I’ll escort her to the car myself.” He always got the last word in.


	2. ACT II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝙏𝙀𝙉𝙏 𝙒𝘼𝙍𝙉𝙄𝙉𝙂: 𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁-𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙈 
> 
> In case you haven't read the tags, I'm repeating myself here. This chapter contains a brief instance of self-inflicted harm. If burns, even in a sexual context, make you feel uneasy in any way, there is a chance you won't be able to enjoy this chapter.

If all your world is now a stage, then you are acting in Edward Nygma’s play. And the knock on your door was the cue.

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

Ever since you’ve abandoned your dinner theater for his own, you haven’t been able to take a single step without his stage directions. He had eyes in every corner and two of them were blinking at you from opposite sides of the room. He had ears in every wall in the building and two of them were stationed at your door. They just so happen to be attached to the two men who had once threatened you with machine guns, the same two men who were now charged with the task of keeping you safe. 

“It’s time to go, Miss.”

“A minute.”

Ever since you’ve abandoned your world for his own, he has sent his dogs to drag you to his suite for dinner only on three occasions. The first two times, you were early to comply. The third time, you’re running dangerously close to late.

“If we leave now, we can still make it on time,” the voice on the other side pleaded with you.

“We’re gonna be late, Miss,” the second voice doubled down. 

“I know.” You took one last, long look at yourself in the mirror. The dress wasn’t the same shade, but it was ever green. If you allowed yourself to be just as vain as your villain, you would even say that it was a flattering fit. “ _I know._ ”

A whisper blew by you like a draft through a cracked door, but your hand was still hovering over the handle: “ _So how long till the boss gets a new stress toy? Three weeks? Two?”_

“ _She can hear you, moron_ .” The whisper got shushed. _“I give her another week.”_

“What are you two waiting for?” Swinging the door open, you startled them. Good. “We’re running late.” Swallowing back a sob, you stretched your lips into a strained smile. “Are you coming, boys?”

They followed you to the top floor, one of them flattering you with a flustered look, while the other coldly complimented you on your taste in threads. This was their first time seeing you in something you had his seamstress shove into the back of your closet, and you dared to hope it wouldn’t be the last. 

No sooner did your new heels hit the floor, that you heard: “You’re late.” You shivered in the evening wind.

Out on the balcony, behind billowing curtains, Edward Nygma stood against the Gotham skyline. The light was dying, desperately latching onto his red hair. The city was silent, mourning after another bloody battle. 

“Forgive me, sir.”

His shoulders tensed as you took your first step past the threshold. The sound of your stilettos was just as strange to him as it was to you. You’d refused to wear any during the first dinner and he didn’t insist on you doing so during the second. Seeing you slipping them on tonight was a surprise, the dying sun coming alive in his eyes as he looked you up and down.

When he finally found his voice again, he cleared it with a swing of his dusk-colored drink. “What’s been keeping you away from me?”

“Technical difficulties,” you smiled even wider, even more strained, but his eyes only narrowed. “The zipper, sir,” you spun around and uncovered your back, lifting a curtain of hair. “I can’t reach it.”

His finger found it and you felt a chill climb up your spine along with it. 

“Thank you,” your voice shook as you surrendered your throat to him. 

With your hair out of the way, the side of your neck was exposed to the elements. The chill of the night had already claimed it. With gooseflesh and a rabbit’s heart, you waited for him to lick his lips and sharpen his teeth.

“You’re trembling, my dear,” he breathed against your bare back. 

You gasped for air. “I am?”

“Are you cold?” He lowered his voice and his lips, but they never did make contact.

If it was cold, you couldn’t feel it for the furnace that was his body standing right there, right behind you. And just when you were about to combust, he covered your shaking shoulders with his suit jacket. It smelled like his cologne and your cigarettes.

You leaned back against his broad chest and let yourself melt. “Not anymore.”

“Here,” he offered the thin rim of his glass instead of his full lips, turning what would’ve become your first kiss into your first taste of poison. He dropped some more into your ear. “It’ll warm you up.”

“Thank you,” you sucked on your bottom, the scotch almost as bitter as you. 

He was as patient of a predator as you’d prayed he’d be during the first night you became his prey. You’d been grateful not to feel the gnashing of his teeth then, but your flesh now ached to be claimed with carnivorous intent. 

Another knock on the door, another cue.

“Dinner’s here.” He lifted his lips along with the glass draining it of poison and drink. “Come, my dear.” 

There was no room for food between the knots in your stomach. You blamed everything from your sessions with Dr. Crane to his colleague, Dr. Isley’s cure for his Toxin, but you both knew the truth. You assigned yourself a role you’ve never played before. And, while his eyes came to your cleavage more often than they searched your own, it didn’t mean you’d embodied the part. 

With Edward Nygma, you had to step up your game.

After leaving your half-empty plate to cool, you made yourself comfortable on the plush carpet. He didn’t join you, arranging himself into his armchair instead, one long leg swung over the other and both sleeves rolled up his bulging biceps. 

“Where are you?”

You looked at him, sitting across from you. Then, at the board, in front of you. And, finally, you peeked at your pawn. “C-4.” 

“No,” he leaned forward, face on his fist and elbows on his knees. “Where are _you_? You’re not here. Where does your mind wander off to, I wonder.” 

Once again he searched your eyes for an answer. And, once again, you blinked him out of there.

You couldn’t let him know about the blood you tried and failed to wash off of your hands. You couldn’t let him know about your name being in the news. That irritating, entitled woman’s voice had made your ears drum. You saved her life and she repaid you with slander. You couldn’t let him know, but you didn’t need to. He was the one monitoring your search history, after all.

“To my next move,” you bowed your head, but it’s not the chess board you were browsing. 

He had to uncross his legs before resting his arms on them, so his strong thighs strained against the seams of his trousers just a table away from you.

“Make sure it’s different enough from the last to count as a new move,” he sighed, interrupting the interrogation. “You may have come close to mating me the other night, but I have all your strategies memorized.” He then leaned back. Spread out like that, he seemed ready to be served. And he’d just dismissed his waitstaff. 

Suddenly, you had a new strategy.

After he plucked another cigarette with his lips from the pack of cigarettes he’d confiscated off of you the day he confined you, he palmed his pockets for your lighter. 

After searching his suit jacket, you revealed it with a rehearsed smile. “I thought you quit smoking, sir.” 

With a questioning brow, he extended an expectant hand. “Wasn’t it you who quit?”

Despite your shivering shoulders, or, maybe because of them, the sliding of his jacket off of your shoulders went smoothly. Standing up, you let it fall to the floor. “At your recommendation, I did.” 

He must’ve never expected your game of chess to be taken off the board. While he’d been prepared to play since the first night, you’d previously refused to participate. Now, on the third night, you were charging towards him and he had to hold his guard up.

Once you reached him, he reached for the lighter. “Thank you, my dear.” But you retread. 

Scrunched up the skirt of your dress just above the stockings, you politely prepared yourself for a saddling. “May I?”

You imagine it took a lot to shut the Riddler up, like a punch to the face or a kick in the teeth would. Showing off your shoulders and thighs had to be enough for tonight. Silently, he invited you to settle, rearranging himself so that you may sit astride him.

The lighter flickered in his eyes when you lit it up, burning your cheeks as they skimmed your face. When the cigarette filter finally made it in his mouth, the hand holding it traveled up your thigh, rounding the curve of your hip and hurting along your arm and, lastly, latching onto your fingers. 

“What game are you playing?” He huffed, smoke streaming out of his mouth. It washed over you, a cloud of confusion. Was it your unsteady hand or your shifty eyes that gave it away this time? Was it your trained smile or beginner’s poker face? 

“Chess,” you giggled, getting second-hand smoke stuck in your throat like the lie you just spoke. 

Edward Nygma was waiting for an answer behind his grey veil. You knew that your time was up once it had been lifted to reveal his expectant expression. “The heels, the dress,” he puffed, pushing the skirt up further, scrunching it against your stomach. “The stockings,” he put his cigarette between his parted lips, sending his hand to join the other at the hem of your dress. “Black lace,” he threatened to tear the satin, squeezing it hard between his fists.

“None,” you wheezed, a breath away from his fuming mouth and passing out. 

“Look at me,” he released the fine fabric he was getting ready to rip before capturing your face in a graceless grip. “You’re wearing nothing underneath, but you can’t even look at me. If you’re not going to use that mouth to answer me, then the least you can do is open it.” Plucking the cigarette out of his pout, he smothered a protest from you with a puff, thick with tobacco and laced with lachery. 

You let it all in, sucking in the smoke like your last breath. You let him suffocate you, sinking your nails into his steady shoulders. It was only when the stream stopped and your mouth was dry that you opened your eyes. You hadn’t even noticed they were closed, but he did. 

“I could put this cigarette out on your tongue, but you still won’t be able to look at me.” Edward Nygma waved the still smoking, still burning stick in front of your eyes. His hold slipped from your jaw all the way down to your neck, a collar’s caress. “It’s better if you quit while you’re ahead.”

“Quit, sir?” You responded from a reverie, licking your lips of the aftertaste of him.

“Don’t play dumb, it’s beneath you,” you heard him sneer and you knew that he must be scowling. You couldn’t face him, of course. You couldn’t. “If I wanted a whore, I would’ve gotten one who can sit on my cock and look me in the eyes at the same time.” 

Even when the collar got threateningly tighter around your throat, you couldn’t face him. Your eyes were on his chest, snuggled up there all safe. They were in the carving of his brand, in the scar that sealed his fate. 

His hand leashing your neck loosened as it latched onto the hairs at the back of your neck. “That’s not what I wanted tonight when I called for you. And that’s not what I wanted the night that I took you.” 

With a pull of your hair, your forehead was pushed against his. “I could’ve taken whatever I wanted, but I didn’t. I won’t take anything you won’t give to me willingly and I won’t accept anything less than all of it.” he whispered, but it could've just as well shouted. “Your mind, your body and your loyalty. I want it all.”

This close, nose to nose, his breath burned like scotch and smoke. This close, the heat of his lips made yours quiver with hope. The distance between them was a kiss, but neither of you closed it. 

“I’ll never have any of it,” he broke the spell, his hand slipping out of your strands and his mouth moving to the side for another taste of tabacco. “I’ll never have you.” 

When his touch retreated, your voice returned, but you had nothing to say. “Excuse me?”

“You are excused, my dear.” Through a sigh and a stream of smoke he spoke to the side table: “The lady would like to retire for the night.” 

You watched him place the phone back and felt him shake your hands off his shoulders. “Sir?”

“Do you mind, my dear?” he stood up and you slipped off of him, spilling into a pathetic puddle on the floor. “Oh, now look what you made me do!”

Edward Nygma was a gentleman when he offered his hand, and you were the furthest thing from a lady when you turned it down. Scrambling to stand up, you hurriedly hid whatever dignity you had left under the hem of your dress. As you ran a hand through your hair and rolled down your skirt, you rambled. “Did I do something wrong? Did I say something wrong? What did I do? What did I-”

“You had me confused for another man,” he shoved his rejected hand into his pocket, and pushed past you. There was something at the bar that had caught his eye. “A pretty face goes a long way, but it’ll never reach me. Any man would’ve had you in that armchair, but I’m not any man. I thought you knew as much, but even I can be wrong on occasion.”

If you hadn’t been a dry hump away from his crotch, you might’ve believed the booze was what got him so excited. He may not be any man, but he’s still a man. You had piqued his interest. Now, you just had to hold his attention.

By the time he turned around, the men he called for were at the door.

“Escort her back to her room,” he spun his glass, dizzying his drink. 

“Yes, sir.” 

The sound of their boots surrounded you. On each side, you had one soldier ready to drag you back into that posh prison. If you had to beg for his forgiveness and get on your knees for your freedom, it had to be right then and there.

“Come now, Miss.”

Standing as straight and as tall as you could, you stared at him from across the room. It was only a toss of your shoe away, but you still had a long way to reach him. You slipped out of the shoe instead. Then, the other one. 

Swallowing all your shame, you choked on the tears that gathered in the well of your eyes. “I’ve offended you, sir. And, for that, I apologize.” You stared him down, the fire in his eyes hot enough to dry your own. And if you were to go blind, then it might as well be from their emerald shine. “You’re not like them. You’re nothing like the men and women I waited on. I got blood on my hands for them, but they didn’t deserve a drop. The only one worthy of my service was you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere.” He let his lips stretch into a smirk. Raising his glass, he rinsed all signs of resentment from his face with a single shot. “But don’t let that stop you.” Rounding the room, he returned to his throne. “Carry on.”

You sat back down into your own spot, growing bolder in the light of his approving eyes. It scorched through you, all the way to the back of your skull as if he could see right through you. 

“I’ve never killed before. The first time, it was as if I’ve done it a thousand times.” You cleared out the chessboard, and when both sides were off the playing field, you snapped it shut and stowed it away. “You saw something in me, something I wasn’t ready to face. You saw me as I am, so I couldn’t face you.” 

“What’s that behind you, my dear?” He raised his eyebrows, an echo of the first time he called you out on your bluff. 

“My zipper,” you latch onto it and let yourself leer at his trousers and how they seemed to be getting tighter.

“Proceed.”

“You’re the only one who sees me.” When you sat up, it was only to push the dress down your body. Then, after stepping out of it, you sauntered over to his side and sit atop the glass surface, eyes open wide and legs spread wider. You had nothing left to hide. 

“I see that you’ve been lying about the outfit malfunction,” his throat was tight and the sound came out scratchy. The cigarette must’ve been to blame, so he extinguished its light in the ashtray that lay between your thighs. “But you’ve been truthful about the lack of lingerie.” The screen of smoke couldn’t cover the Devil in his smile, the sadistic satisfaction of seeing your legs shake as he put out the fire between them. “A wrong and a right cancel each other out. We are at a stalemate yet again.”

When he retrieved his hand, he didn’t retire back into the cushion of his armchair. His elbows were on his knees again, his chin in his hand. The thinking man. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Whatever you want, sir.”

He gave your body - shaking under his scrutiny, shrinking back as you lay low on your elbows - a break when he looked away. “What are we going to do with her?”

The men were unmoving, two pawns he had yet to forward on the board. They were as silent as they were still, looking straight ahead instead of down at their demise.

“Of course,” he chuckled. “You’re not to touch, look at and, if you can help it, address her directly.” His gaze was on you, gliding down between your breasts, across your abdomen, before it sunk into your pussy like one would in a proper pond. It was wet enough to drown in, so he took a deep breath. Then, Edward Nygma exhaled. “Remember this, and how attached you are to your genitals, on your way downstairs.” He leaned back at last and crossed his legs as if you hadn’t seen the stiffness of his cock through his trousers. “Good night, my dear.” 

“Sir, please,” your voice trembled, your thighs, too. The rest of your flesh followed as you flagellated yourself before him. “Please,” Your nails grazed the glass beneath you, your toes curled in the carpet below you and you held your ground. “T-There’s nothing left for me out there.”

When your hand wandered past the pool of your own pleasure only to sink into the still smoking ash, you saw the Riddler look puzzled for the very first time. “What are you doing?” 

“You can have all of it.” You felt tears fall and put out your burning blush. “You can have all of me.” You took the bud out of the tray and placed it between your quivering lips. As you took your first direct drag in weeks, lighting the cigarette all over again, you dragged your tainted fingertips across your chest and drew a sickle. “My mind, my body, my soul,” you blinked up at him, lashes wet and eyes red. Your hand hovered over the handle of your ashy sickle, the burning end of the bud just below it. “You can have it all,” you gritted your teeth, gathering the strength to seal the deal and sear your skin. 

Everything was on fire. Your eyes, your throat, and your new brand was burning just above your loins. Everything was on fire, until he put it out. 

Pouring the last drops of his drinks over your searing skin, he watched you melt against the cold table top. He must’ve liked what he saw because his eyes insisted on stroking the same fire he put out as they watched you wince from above. “Who are you?”

Your spine arched, the stinging stream of whiskey streaming down your stomach and running its course as it spilled into your cunt. “Please, sir,” you whined, wet and wanting. 

He knocked over the tray, spilling the ash, as his knee took its place between your thighs. “Look at me,” he demanded, denying your hands when they tried to hook themselves onto him. Your fingertips had barely begun to trace the tend in his trousers when he pressed your entire palm atop of your pussy. “Look at me while you answer me. Who are you?”

This time, you didn’t look away. This time, you focused on his eyes, the greedy green that robbed you of all reason. This time, you let him see you. “I’m yours.” 

“That’s right,” he smiled, satisfied with the tremor in your tone and the squelch of your soppy cunt. He took them into his mouth, your stinky, tangy fingers, and sucked. 

Freeing your fingers of his mouth, he leaned forward and let them latch onto his loose collar. He even let you have at his lips, licking them clean of your own aftertaste. It was your first kiss and the last time he let you take the lead.

It was after you had run out of breath and came up for air that he reminded you who was in charge. He smirked something sadistic and, when his tongue tangled with yours, he swallowed your scream. He had to remind you of how much that scotch had stung, so he sunk his thumb into the spot, the point to his question mark. 

“Mine.”

“Yours,” you echoed, every nerve in your body now woven together into that wound.

When the rest of his fingers found the other bundle between your flooded folds, his mouth murmured molten lava directly into your ear. “And this? about this? Whose is this?”

“Oh, God,” you cried, your cunt tearing up in time with your eyes. 

“Guess again.” 

Thumb and index fingers worked together to rub away at your sanity. Pain and pleasure rested both the palm of his hand. The answer was an arm wrapped around his neck and a whine teared out of your throat: “Yours.”

“That’s right.”

His circles got tighter around your clitoris and so did your cunt, clenching around the promise of his cock. When he shoved a finger inside to give you something to squeeze on, he slipped his other hand to the small of your back for an acute angle. All his calculations proved to be correct when you pulsed all around his drenched digit.

“Mine.” 

If your world is now a stage, then it is Edward Nygma’s play. He directs everyone’s next move and you slumping against him was their cue.

“Men,” he called out to your silent spectators once you were secured into his arms, one of which was under your knees while the other was around your shoulders. “Take the rest of the night off.”


	3. ACT III

When it calls for curtains, he promises Gotham he will be the only one left to take a bow. When all is said and done, he promised he’d have the last word. When the Batman of all flying freaks brought him Kite Man, another flying freak, he promised he’d be back before you know it. 

And Edward Nygma is nothing if not a man of his word. 

With all of Joker’s men six feet under or surrounded by four walls, a night out on the balcony had never been more quaint. Or quiet. You were beginning to think you might’ve finally gone deaf, finally grown numb to the cries of mercy of your own dying city. The sound of shattering glass, however, you heard crystal clearly.

Catwoman may have feigned regret like a human, but she moved like a feline on the edge of the railing, one silent step in front of the next. “Sorry.” If the ashtray he’d left there this morning was now a scattering of shards, it was because she knocked it over on purpose. “Did I startle you?”

“You didn’t,” you said even as you struggled to settle your heart back into its spot. Caressing his jacket closer, you sunk into the scent, and found your courage in the waves of cologne washing over you. “I was miles away.”

Landing on her kitten heels, she invited herself in. “Come morning, you might be.”

“They’re done interrogating him?” 

“Oh, I wish,” she turned to you with a sigh, the sound of someone tiring herself while standing on the sidelines. You were standing right there beside her. “You know how Eddie _loooves_ to talk. He’s probably asking the questions  _ and  _ answering them. And I can guarantee you that the Bat is not hurrying him along. He loves theatrics just as much, if not more.” 

Your heart hiccuped and it all bubbled to the surface as a smile. Edward does _looove_ to talk. He’d talk to himself in the mirror through the fresh toothpaste foam. He’d talk to you through the mist of an early morning. Oh, he’d talk your ear red with golden lies from a silver tongue. He’d even reenact entire excerpts from his unpublished plays from between your l-

“Miles away, huh?” Catwoman had to crawl atop the bar countertop to get your attention. “How about you come back and pour me a drink?” 

You worked around her and her crossed legs, busying yourself with dusting off the glasses and opening that wine bottle she snuck in the other night. Your heart was a wild hare every night as Edward prowled towards the bar. He had yet to see what the cat had dragged in, or that you were keeping a cat at all. 

“How much longer do you think they’re gonna be?”

“The Bat hasn’t grumbled anything in his matching headgear in a while,” her claw tapped the human ear trapped under the mask. “But we’re not waiting on his signal.” She spoke into the cup, clearing it of its contents. “I’m getting you out of here tonight.”

When it calls for curtains, Batman promises Gotham neither the Joker of the Riddler will be getting an encore. When all is said and done, the people will have the last word. When he of all masked freaks sent Catwoman, another masked freak, to be his man on the inside. Batman is the Knight on Riddler’s side of the board, but is making moves independent of the King to get you out of the game.

Your face must’ve made a comical mask as it contorted in confusion because Catwoman was amused under her own. 

“I know Tall, Dark and Brooding made a promise to himself to save you. He made me promise to save you, too.” Filling her glass with more white foam than golden wine this time, she took it on a tour of the suite. “He promised you a lighter sentence which is everything a girl could ever ask for.” You couldn’t see her eyes rolling, but you sure heard them hit the back of her head. “Well, all I promised was that I’d help you break out of your golden cage, not that I’d do it his way.” 

Once the bubbles settled, she settled herself in a seat. His seat. “There’s a cargo ship leaving for Atlantic City at sunrise. Now that Joker doesn’t have Falcone’s flock hovering over the docs, sneaking on should be easy.”

“You’re taking me to Atlantic City?”

“I’m hitching you a ride to Atlantic City,” she raised the crystal in premature celebration. Clinking it against the glass you grasped with both hands and a shattering heart, Catwoman continued. “Neither the Bat or the pigs will catch you there. I’ve got a contact there, Kitrina, and she’ll help you settle down. Anything you need - ID, papers, places to crash at - she’s got you.” She must’ve taken notice of your mute state because she went dry after that and gave up on draining her glass. She set it on the chessboard in front of her instead. “I know it’s the eleventh hour, but, trust me, you would never be free of him in Gotham. Whatever bars they’ll lock you behind - Blackgate or Arkham - they’ll never be enough to keep him out.”

“I should hope not,” you exhaled and Catwoman rolled her shoulders forward as if chilled by your breath. 

Looking, her eyes were sharp and cutting right through your own. “What was that, honey? I did not just hear you say-”

Unwinding one of your hands from around your wine flute, you reached for hers. “Oh, but you did.” On your walk back to the bar, you watched the smirk on her whiskers weaken. “I should hope that no bars ever come between us.” You watched her as she failed to walk in a straight line. “I never took you for a lightweight, honey.”

Her claw came close to your eye, but it didn’t even graze your gaze. “Did you just fucking roofie me?”

“Dr. Isley said it’s not Rohypnol, but it’ll do the job,” you let her knock over the bottle and make it rain all over as she tried to settle the storm inside of her and keep herself from falling to the floor. You returned to your seat. His seat. “You can crash on the bed, if you can reach it.”

“Did he put you up to this?” Catwoman was crawling on the carpet now, but not towards the mattress. “Did your life depend on you drugging me, or do get a kick out of being a pawn in his fucking game?”

Now, the words of wailing cat shouldn’t have shaken you so. Still, you sunk deeper into the seat, seeking the strength that might’ve rubbed off on it. You sunk your nose into the suit jacket and your eyes, into the black and white world of the chess board. “You’re wrong. I’m not his pawn, I’m his que-” When your gaze trailed past the table and across the carpet, you spotted a silhouette in the balcony. “What?!” 

“Keep telling yourself that, honey!” 

Then, it sunk back into the shadows. 

“Cat,” you called out to the night. “Cat?” The night never answered back.

On your way back into the light, you met up with two men wearing matching masks of concern. It was Q and E, the sentinels that never leave your side. Well, unless you dismiss them - then they never leave either side of the door.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“We heard screaming.”

“This is Gotham. When can’t you hear screaming?” Sliding the door behind you, you slipped back into your role. “Back to your posts.”

.❋ .❋. ❋.

The feeling of the suit jacket falling off your shoulders, of all daring being drained from you, startled you out of your sleep. 

With a kiss to your frowning forehead, he settles you back into the sheets. “It’s me, baby doll,” he hushes you, lips lingering on your skin. “It’s me.”

You must’ve fallen asleep in his chair, legs swung over the arm of it, as you waited. And waited. And waited. 

Now, he’s finally here. Now, with your back against the bed and his hips on the crown of your head, you enveloped yourself with him. “Edward,” you clawed at his back, nails gliding off of his sweat-slick skirt. “Edward,” you lock your legs around his waist, tightening his thighs around it like a belt. “Edward,” you suckle the salty skin of his neck where hickies can’t hide.

“Did you miss me?” 

He was teasing you, of course. He’s been doing it all week.  _ No cheating _ , he’d say.  _ No touching yourself either _ , he’d say as he dropped you in a puddle of your desperation and tears of frustration. _ It’ll all be worth it. _

“Rhetorical question,” you nip at his Adam’s apple before it bops.

“Wrong answer,” he hisses, his hands holding your hips down. There would be no dry humping either.

“Yes,” you scratch at his shoulders. Struggle against his strong grip, you grind your hips.

“You haven’t been a good girl?”

“Yes, sir” your lips line his jaw, sliding against the stubble. 

“Have you been touching yourself?”

“No, sir,” you move towards his mouth with your last breath.

“Are you lying to me?”

“Ye-” the last of the air in your lungs has the word die on your lips.

Breathless, you turn to stone. But stones don’t shake, do they? The quake. You quake under him. “Was that a yes?”

“No,” you shake your head in a hurry.

“Look at me,” the green in his gaze is three shades darker. “And answer me truthfully.”

You swallow the heart that’s been stuck in your throat since Catwoman eloped. “I haven’t been touching myself, but-”

“But?”

“I’ve been lying to you,” you choke on your heart again. 

His hands flex on your fidgeting hips. “About?”

“Y-you remember when I told you that you shouldn’t trust the Batman?”

As his frown deepens, so does his voice. “I remember.”

“Well, he keeps sending his...his friend, Catwoman, to talk to me while you’re not around and-”

While his brows remain bridged, his lips stretch out in a smile. “She’s been sneaking in and out by cutting off the feed to the cameras?”

“Y-you knew?”

“Of course I knew,” he released your hips and raised his own along with the rest of his bust. “There is nothing that went down in this room that I do not know about,” Edward slicked back the few strands of hair that had escaped. “Including you tempering with that bottle of sparkling wine you’ve stashed away,” he slipped off his signet rings, more red than gold now. “I’ve never seen Catwoman not fall on her feet before,” he laughed, loosening the rest of his shirt’s buttons. 

Edward Nygma burrowed between your trembling thighs is all you’ve asked for all week. It’s all you’ve prayed for every night and dreamed of every day. His pectorals shined with perspiration, his knuckles were reddened with blood and, from the eagerness still fastened in his pants, you knew that he’d won. Kite Man had spilled his guts and the Riddler was one move away from checkmate.

So why weren’t you in a celebrating mood?

“She wanted me to leave Gotham,” you hiked yourself up on your elbows, “Tonight.” 

“She got what she deserved,” he unbuckled and unbuttoned. 

"Did you know that?"

"Of course I did."

When you found your voice again, you wielded it with force. "Then why did you let it happen? Why did you let her into our room, into our lives?" You closed your legs, covered your crotch with the slip of satin that was your nightgown. "Why did you let her come between us."

"Because I knew you'd figure her out." At a normal volume, his voice was gravelly, a tired growl. "My clever girl."

You climbed higher up the bed, hiking all the way to the pillows. "What if I hadn't? What if I'd left tonight? What if I'd left you?"

This time, he sounded as savage as he was sleepless. "I'd never let that happen," he secured his hand around your ankle and squeezed. "Ever," he pulled you away from the pillows and at the periphery of the bed. 

There, he took off his trousers. There, your mouth watered and your cunt clenched. 

"Show me," he demanded, dick hard and heavy in his hand. He smiled, satisfied, you spread yourself for him and all your love and loyalty for him seeped out from between those trembling thighs. "You could never leave me," he slapped your slit and watched as you whimpered. With his slicked hand, he returned to his shaft. "Who else makes you feel this way?"

"Please," you pleaded because you're pathetic and just the promise of his cock made you drool. It made your cunt drool, too. 

"You didn't answer me," he scrunched the satin and exposed your stomach. In purples and blues, the memory of his markings. And while your week of abstinence had erased the dip of Edward's teeth, the memory of a question mark had yet to fade. "Who's making you feel this way?"

"Y-you do."

"Correct," he pumped himself at a steady pace for punishment, not pleasure. "You want this?"

"I do," you opened yourself up wider, whined harder. "I do, sir."

The sheets sunk under his knees as he settled between your spread legs, "Whose is this?" He pointed it out with a teasing touch of his leaking tip against your labia.

"Yours," you gasped as he gathered your gown in a bunch right above your breasts. "All of it is y-your."

"And who are you?" 

"Yo-AH!" 

Your heart sinks into the depths and pumps. Your cunt is a feverish flutter and furious flood as it clenches around the cock that completed her. 

"Mine," Edward exhales, his heated breath blowing against your breasts. 

You kiss the bloody fist he fastened around your gown and under your chin. As it pushes past your chin and against your cheek, it becomes an open palm.

"My queen."

**Author's Note:**

> If you don't know what the hell this whole 'The War of Jokes and Riddles' is all about, check out Edward Nygma in it by copy and pasting this into your search bar: 
> 
> https://www.cbr.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/07/kite-man-riddler.jpg
> 
> Trust me, that's all you need to know.


End file.
